Catastrophe

The scraggly puss glared through screen,
planted on my doormat, a sour expression,
whiskers askew. Gleaming orbs conveyed
in Cat Code an urgent missive…
I understood the command but refused.

"Sorry. I don't have enough." I showed
the creature empty palms, like explaining
to hungry-eyed Homeless on two legs.
That was half the population these days.
Others had vanished. The rest of us hid,
locked inside, wondering, fearing the
vagrants. Trying to stay alive.

Meanwhile, cats were acting very odd.
I didn't notice at first, then became aware
of strays or ferals traveling in groups.
Clusters with purpose. Kind of eerie.
I watched them. And they studied me,
from rooftops, fences. Panic flared.

What's that noise? Rapping. Nobody
visited. Or delivered. We foraged,
defensive, scared. Warily I returned
to behold the same feline. Brooding,
intent. We stared. Did he —?

I blinked as the cat reached to push
a metal screen. Maybe it wasn't so
bizarre. The animal surprised me by
squawking "Open the door!"
He spoke! I didn't wish to sound trite.
The conversation deserved to be
profound. Important.

Summoning a cogent reply, I came up
blank. In stupefaction I obeyed. Bolts
flipped. The door drifted ajar, creaking.
Power shifted. A cat-herd pounced.

I lay staring up, and noticed a detail.
These panther-like kitties were all dark.
The howls, the growls, the fur! In terror
I beheld my perspective shrink…
Then sprang to four agile clawed feet.
Whiskers sprouted, a tail swished behind.

I gaped at an umbral pack, hungry, raiding
my cupboards and shredding upholstery.
More demon than kitty. "That's mine!
Stop! Put that down!" I bristled, angry.

The puss from the stoop boxed my nose.
"Shut up and listen. You're infected."
He described an illness spreading from
felines to humans, the Cat Population
growing. Only those who were once
people could talk, retaining a few tricks.

It explained what happened to a world
crafted, reshaped, deformed by the
Dominant Species. Grimalkins became
a nostrum, a "cure" to that disease.

Black Cats shared a common need —
banding together over being mistreated,
oppressed due to Superstitions for ages.
They turned on the Beldams, clawing!
I didn't care to join a Revolution.
"Anarchy is for the birds," I scowled.

"Then you are a traitor!" yowled the
long-haired mutant. We hissed.
A guttural then piercing scream arose.
The wail convinced sensitive ears and
souls to scatter. I was willing to fight
my own battle. Not theirs. I nudged
the door closed, blissfully alone.

Expecting to awaken from a tormentous
nap. Or the malady's metamorphosis
to wear off, restore a familiar shell.
My safe comfortable sense of apathy,
social indifference. Dumb cats.
You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Lori R. Lopez is a peculiar author, poet, illustrator, and wearer of hats. Verse and stories have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies including The Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Weirdbook, The Horror Zine, Space & Time, HWA Poetry Showcases, JOURN-E, Impspired, Aphelion, Altered Reality, Dead Harvest, and California Screamin (Foreword Poem). Books include The Dark Mister Snark, Leery Lane, An Ill Wind Blows, The Witchunt, The Fairy Fly, and Darkverse: The Shadow Hours (nominated for an Elgin Award). Some of Lori's poems have been nominated for Rhysling Awards. You can learn more about her at the website shared with two talented sons: https://www.fairyflyentertainment.com

Find more by Lori R. Lopez in the Author Index.